


Strawberries and Cream

by undergroundmindpalace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Autism, Drabble, Kid Fic, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M, Oneshot, esiff, substudy 2, undergroundmindpalace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undergroundmindpalace/pseuds/undergroundmindpalace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>||“The tests conclude that Sherlock is autistic.”<br/>Sherlock puts his hand in his mouth and bites down, hard. The word <i>autistic</i> hangs in the air.||</p>
<p>Written for Substudy II in Edye's (lostinsherlock||tumblr) Study in Fanfiction.<br/>Prompt: Write a oneshot that covers the span of someone's life. (less than 1500 words)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberries and Cream

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy this. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think, (criticisms welcome). If you have a favourite line or section, tell me! :)

Walls.

White walls.

Clean, synthetic, visually appealing.

There are posters. Encouragement. Self-help. Therapy. They all blur in front of Sherlock’s eyes as he is dragged forward. His mother has a firm grip on his coat sleeve; her knuckles are white with love.

They pass several open doors, and yet more closed ones. Each door has a different grain; Sherlock flinches. In each room Sherlock spies only two chairs and a potted plant. The rooms are entirely neutral; even the plants seem to have shrugged off nature’s grasp and made themselves into part of the architecture.

They pause in front of a closed door. Sherlock places his hand to his mouth, watching his mother frown; she has always hated the gesture however Sherlock finds biting relaxing. The doctor pulls out a set of keys and carelessly stabs them into the lock. Sherlock registers the grating sound, doesn’t like it, but forces himself to keep listening, so as to hear the satisfying click of the door unlocking. The door swings open. This room is different. Not in a highly ostensible way, but still, different. There are three chairs, rather than two. A startling statement against the uniformity that Sherlock has already witnessed.

The doctor holds the door open and smiles down at Sherlock when he finally follows his mother into the room. The grip on his wrist has been relinquished. He is propelled forward and into a seat by the doctor’s insistent touches on his shoulders and upper arm. He avoids her hands almost instinctively.

The respite is brief however, as he can feel her eyes upon him, and it makes his skin crawl almost as much as her hands did. She is looking into his face and so he in turn looks towards the plant, counting each of the leaves and then counting their veins.

The doctor, who introduces herself as Cara, is the first to speak, “Hello Sherlock, how are you feeling today?”

The question is confusing. Feeling? Sherlock continues to count things; pebbles in soil, cracks in the pottery. His mother sighs, stares out of the window; maybe she too is counting. Silence reigns and the doctor smiles wider, out of the corner of Sherlock’s eye, he notices. Her front teeth have a gap between them, it affects the way the other teeth sit; displeasing. The doctor turns her attention to his mother.

“Well, the tests were highly successful, and the results have shown us a strong correlation. We’re now able to issue a diagnosis.”

“We’re ready to hear it,” Mrs. Holmes answers, with a little nod.

“The tests conclude that Sherlock is autistic.”

Sherlock puts his hand in his mouth and bites down, hard. The word autistic hangs in the air.

* * *

 

It’s early September when Sherlock finds himself standing outside his new home. He has been given permission to move into student accommodation early, so as to acclimatise to the situation before classes start.

When the acceptance letter from Oxford arrived only several months before, Sherlock’s mother cried. Now she is crying again. This time she is not clinging to his father, but rather, to the boxes of belongings that she is carrying upstairs. Sherlock’s father follows close behind her.

As they disappear behind the door, Sherlock brings his finger up to his mouth. He knows better than to do this in front of them now, but he is disinclined to stop entirely. As his teeth meet the pad of his index finger, he can feel the noise in his head start to dissipate, and settle into a gentler hum. Somewhere behind him a door slams and he flinches at the sound, biting into his finger a little too hard. He removes the appendage from his mouth and looks at the angry pink mark that he has left. Somewhere in his body, there is a spark of feeling, but it doesn’t have time to even reach the surface before Sherlock is focusing more on the task at hand.

He doesn’t know how long he is standing at the open boot of his parent’s car, before his mother is at his shoulder and making the decision of which box to carry for him. She stacks some loose books on top of a box and places it in Sherlock’s arms carefully, so as not to invade too much of his space.

Sherlock notices that the book on the top of the pile is one from Mycroft’s bookshelf. A gift, most probably, from his somewhat distant older brother. Sherlock removes it from the pile and places it back into the boot. The book already has a home and Sherlock can’t bring himself to imagine an empty space on the shelf.

Sherlock steers away from the thought of his bed at home being empty too.

* * *

 

When Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson it feels like being plunged into cold water. There’s something in the rigidity of John’s stance, the routine in his limp, and the discomfort on his face that resonates deep within Sherlock. John’s raised eyebrows at Sherlock’s observational ability speaks volumes about the type of man John Watson is. Sherlock already finds himself subconsciously working John into his daily routine.

Sherlock does not switch focus from the task at hand, but instead focuses the microscope as if his life depends upon it. He knows that if he has any chance of integrating John into his life then he should probably engage with him, but he cannot bring himself to do so. His fingers flex in frustration.

In lieu of the obvious, Sherlock reaches out to the only other person in the room; Mike Stamford. As with every other social interaction that Sherlock undertakes, there is a level of calculation, for what many find easy, Sherlock considers highly complex. He runs through a set of rules in his head; _say name to reinforce, add a clause to alleviate bluntness._

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” Nonsense, of course. Sherlock’s phone works as well as any.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

Of course it is, Sherlock mentally berates himself. Mike Stamford has too many acquaintances and too few friends to warrant keeping his phone within his immediate vicinity. A coat pocket is more than adequate. He attributes John to the disturbance to his mental processes.

“Er, here. Use mine.”

Sherlock reluctantly walks over to John’s out stretched hand. He takes the phone carefully, ensuring that the only contact made is from his eyes to John’s skin. _Tan lines_ , Sherlock muses, unable to prevent himself from noticing.

A tragedy, his mother insists, that Sherlock is so invested in the lives of other people, yet will not allow himself to become a part of them. Sherlock doesn’t see the issue. He is satisfying his brain’s natural curiosity, without the danger of the damage he so often seems to cause. Mycroft’s snide comments to the effect of “it’s your fault that mother cries so often,” echo in Sherlock’s memory whenever he even entertains the idea of involvement.

“Oh. Thank you.” Polite but detached.

“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike kills the silence.

Sherlock flips the key pad on John’s phone, enjoys the click that it makes, and commits John’s name to memory; barely a second passes.

Sherlock speaks without conscious thought for the first time in a while, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The words seem to shock him almost as much as they shock John, who looks to Mike Stamford with question marks for lips.

“Sorry?”

* * *

 

It’s his fiftieth birthday, and Sherlock has never been happier.

John has bought him a cake, Victoria sponge, strawberry jam and cream; reminiscent of the cakes his mother would bake. There is some comfort in familiarity, even if the rigmarole of birthday celebrations do detract from Sherlock’s routine. At least John knows to keep the noise down and not to invite anyone else.

John is smiling his big wide smile, which more than anything Sherlock appreciates, due to its openness; he can read John Watson’s face better than any other. And sure, Sherlock would rather be out on the streets, solving some crime, than stuck in his kitchen, but he’s getting older now and he’s sure that there’s no one else he’d rather be with.

And the taste of cream on his tongue, mixed with the tartness of the jam is so wonderfully overwhelming. Sherlock brings his finger to his lips to catch some stray cream and John’s face softens at the gesture; he knows its history well enough.

Sherlock extends his hand and shuts his eyes as John drags a finger over the back of his palm; again delighting in the simple pleasure of being overwhelmed.


End file.
